Chapter Seventy-One: Blessings Will Surely Follow

Upon hearing this, Yan Chixia immediately stood up with utmost respect and addressed him as “Elder.” Anyone who could address his own master as a peer could hardly be an ordinary person—perhaps this young man before him was, in truth, a venerable “old monster” of unfathomable cultivation. He had long since heard tales of those with profound attainments whose mastery of the art of youthful visage allowed them, despite centuries of age, to appear as nothing more than elegant youths.

“Haha, my disciple, you’re mistaken. He’s about your age—no need for such formalities,” Xuanyangzi said with a smile. If his own disciple were to call Yi An “Elder,” it would throw everything into chaos.

Yan Chixia then addressed him as “Brother Yi,” yet it was without the slightest trace of disrespect; on the contrary, his admiration grew. To be held in high esteem by his master was proof enough of Yi An’s extraordinary nature.

He himself was an orphan, his lineage unknown. As a child, he had followed his parents from the land of Qin to seek a livelihood in Jiangnan and Zhejiang, but fate was unkind, and his parents died during a famine. It was by fortune alone that he later encountered Xuanyangzi.

From that day forward, Xuanyangzi took him in, raising him to adulthood and imparting to him all he had learned in his life. Such boundless grace could never be repaid in this lifetime; all he could do was fulfill his master’s wishes, dedicating himself to the eradication of evil and injustice.

“What did you say your name was?” Yi An, upon hearing the name, was momentarily stunned. Yan Chixia—there was something familiar about that name.

“Brother Yi, my name is Yan Chixia—the ‘chi’ of loyal heart, the ‘xia’ of radiant clouds,” Yan Chixia replied with a guileless expression. His features were rugged, even more so than Li Zhihe’s.

Yan Chixia…

Yi An pondered deeply, sifting through the depths of his memory until at last the name surfaced. Where had he heard it before? At the same time, a long-buried recollection stirred: in his former days as an ordinary man, Yan Chixia had been a central figure in the world of Strange Tales from a Chinese Studio.

Yet whether this Yan Chixia was truly that Yan Chixia, he could not say. Perhaps it was mere coincidence. The world is vast, with wonders beyond count; the collision of two identical names was hardly a marvel.

Still, Yi An could not help but compare the Yan Chixia before him with the one from his memory. Firstly, their appearances bore a striking resemblance. Secondly, their callings were the same: both were Daoist priests devoted to the eradication of demons.

“Could he truly be the same, only not yet grown into the legendary Yan Chixia?” Yi An could not help but wonder. If so, it would be a first glimpse behind the mysteries of this world. Though it was only the tip of the iceberg, it was a vital step.

“Brother Yi, is something wrong?” Yan Chixia asked in puzzlement.

“It’s nothing, I was simply reminded of the past for a moment and lost my composure,” Yi An replied, letting the matter drop. In time, the riddle would unravel itself.

“I see. Ah, I nearly forgot our proper business. Master, the man in distress has been awaiting you for some time—he’s in the guest room,” Yan Chixia said, suddenly recalling his purpose.

“The matter at hand is urgent. You’d best take me to see this scholar. The fiend lurks in darkness while we are in the open—such a position puts us at a disadvantage. Let’s hear what he has to say; perhaps we can glean some useful information,” Xuanyangzi replied gravely. Against demons, one must never be careless, no matter how feeble they may seem.

Demons excel in the arts of sorcery; only when facing them directly can one truly understand their cunning.

They arrived at the guest room and soon met the scholar. Judging by his attire, he too was a candidate in this year’s provincial exam.

Upon seeing Xuanyangzi, the scholar’s eyes lit up, as though he had found his anchor at last. Excitedly, he said, “Master Daoist, you have finally returned.”

“So it’s you. How is your mother these days?” Xuanyangzi inquired.

He was acquainted with this scholar—or to be precise, with his mother. They lived outside the city of Hangzhou, where only the old woman remained. She was not a follower of Buddhism, but rather of Daoism—a faith little known among outsiders. As she once said, Daoism was the native faith of Yanbei, vast and profound. With sincerity, the spirits would respond. In days past, she would often come up to Jade Void Monastery to offer prayers, though in recent years, age had wearied her, and she visited only rarely, always accompanied by her son.

Thus it was that Xuanyangzi had met her on several occasions.

At the mention of his mother, the scholar’s warm gaze grew heavy with sorrow—an instant transformation that made Xuanyangzi realize at once that he had spoken amiss.

As expected, the scholar said with melancholy, “At the beginning of the year, my mother passed away. Her only regret was not living to see me bring honor to our family, to marry and have children. Still, I did not disappoint her—this year’s exam has brought some measure of success.”

“May you find comfort. Birth, aging, sickness, and death are the way of all things. Your mother was a woman of great hidden virtue—where virtue dwells, blessings surely follow,” Xuanyangzi said in consolation.

He spoke not idly; he had indeed divined the old woman’s fate.

Hidden virtue refers to doing good in silence—performing deeds without seeking recognition or reward. To act with a pure heart, not for reputation, is most precious.

By contrast, manifest virtue is like those who do good for the sake of fame, to let the world see how virtuous they are—this is called manifest virtue.

Yet manifest virtue is called fortune, while hidden virtue is called merit. When fortune is spent, it is gone; but merit possesses boundless energy, like a drop of water merging into the sea, never to dry up. Those with great merit shelter their descendants, and their posterity benefits from their deeds.

The idea of merit is elusive, invisible, and intangible, yet it brings endless blessings.

The scholar murmured his thanks, though his grief remained.

“Let us speak of your ordeal,” Xuanyangzi prompted.

The scholar nodded and began his account.

“After the results of the provincial exam were posted, I could not wait to leave—I wanted to bring the good news to my mother as soon as possible.

“But shortly after leaving Hangzhou, I encountered a woman of breathtaking beauty.

“She claimed to be the daughter of a wealthy man from a neighboring city, come to Hangzhou on business with her father. But fate is unpredictable—on the road, they were set upon by bandits. Her father and their servants died protecting her, and only she escaped by sheer luck.

“Her story was riddled with inconsistencies—at once, I knew she was lying. At first, I could not fathom why. I am but a poor scholar, with nothing to tempt her…”